Exiled | Rosékook

Chapter one

I jolt upright, breathing heavily. Putting a hand on my pounding heart, I sigh as I gaze outside my window.

It's just a dream, I remind myself. A really, really shitty dream.

Looking around my room, I still can't wrap my head around why a faint buzzing rings in my ears each time I wake up on this very bed. It's like a faint warning, like a bell soaked with water trying to ring through the heavy density.

It's the truth, yet I always cower to look close enough to unravel it. I'm an idiot, I know that. Plus, I'm satisfied with my life.

I stand from my bed, scratching my back as I struggle to fully open my eyes.

Birds don't sing, air doesn't offer the kisses it used to brush across my flesh like before–now that this city is nothing but a puddle of pollution and skyscrapers, it's no wonder. My wealthy family is lucky enough to have a garden as it is. Not to mention the castle we're currently living in–how can I possibly object?

Yet, all I could think about during these empty days is: why does all of this feel like a trick, an illusion, a false image? Some might say I'm hallucinating because of the disease of boredom. And some fools–like me–might agree.

I've recently got interested in legends, fantasies, and–ironically–history.

The legend that got hold of my interest like a cat with a ball of cotton is the long lost island of Avanoska–

''Chaeyoung HOWLER!'' a shriek sounds from downstairs. ''Get your ass down here!''

Rolling my eyes, I wonder how my sister got the energy to scream this early in the morning. There are no parents to disturb; my mother is too busy daydreaming about love, and father hasn't come back from his so-called trip for two years. Checks of money sent to us by his name is the only indication that he's still unfortunately alive.

''WHY?'' I shout back.

''Because you stole my mascara!'' A pause. ''OBVIOUSLY!''

For God's sake, we're not kids anymore. I'm soon to be legally an adult, and my sister will soon graduate middle school.

Choosing to ignore her like I have done all these years, I stalk towards my dusted mirror. Mom has ceased appointing servants over, and me and my sibling would rather drink horse pee than do chores–easily explains the dusted surfaces.

My hands drift over my long waist-length hair. Light brown and slightly curly, it practically looks like muddy waves. My eyes, a hundred more devious, are the color of the sun–gold and yellowish. It earned me the nickname: Goldy Irises. I never complained about it, but it still unnerved me. My body, weirdly enough, is bulk and muscular. I'm a woman who spends her days stuffing her face with sweets and earning the Genius world record for being a 'couch potato', so the pressing question is: how the Hell?

The growl of my empty stomach cuts my thoughts. Sighing, I go downstairs.

. . .

Marching outside my room, I inhale the heavy scent of dusted carpet. Considering the long staircase covered with red feathery carpet, it's impossible to ignore the smell. I walk slowly towards the large hall on the first floor. My footsteps echo loudly as I make my way towards the kitchen.

I stop abruptly as my eyes strain on a book on a round caffeine table. It has, oddly, always caught my attention. It's just a book, anyway, though it always succeeds in making me stop dead in my tracks to let my eyes roam over it. I never had the nerve to open it, never bothered to. However, this morning, something feels different–like the leftovers of smoke leaving a lighted splint as it has been blown away.